Dangerous Girls (18 page)

“No,” I insist.

“Knew, in fact, that she would be alone in the house that afternoon.” Dekker ignores my reply. “And that this attacker could come and go in broad daylight, without raising suspicion. That her attacker had keys to the house and knew the alarm codes.”

“No!” My voice is shrill. He’s making it sound simple, too simple, and I can tell from the expressions in the courtroom that they agree.

“Isn’t it more likely that her attacker harbored a jealous rage . . .,” Dekker is relentless. “And was angry at the victim? Angry enough to stab her thirteen times and leave her there, bleeding to death on the bedroom floor—”

“Objection!” My lawyer finally cries out. “The prosecutor is testifying!”

“Sustained.”

“That’s fine.” Dekker grins at me again, cruel and triumphant. “I have no further questions for the witness at present.”

“Would you care to cross?” von Koppel asks my lawyer, but he must be able to tell, I’m beyond helping right now.

“No, Your Honor,” he sighs. “Nothing further.”

As I step down from the witness seat, I see my dad seated in the front row. He meets my eyes and quickly sends me a
wave and a smile, but I catch the look on his face just before he manages to mask it: worried and bleak. The hopeless exhaustion in his gaze is how I feel after my day on the stand, but somehow, seeing it reflected back at me drives the chilling truth home. My legs waver, and a wash of dizziness passes over me as I realize the truth.

We’re losing this.

“The key is to get
on the offensive. Find other suspects, start taking apart the prosecution’s case before we even get to trial.”

His name is Oliver Gates, and he’s an old college buddy of my dad’s, recruited to rescue my crumbling legal defense. A short teddy bear of a man in square black-rimmed glasses and a crumpled shirt, he paces in the small interview room, oblivious to the specks of coffee stains on his novelty golf-print tie. I watch, my heart sinking. He’s soft-looking and warm, a million miles from Dekker’s cut-throat aggression or even Ellingham’s snooty professional detachment.

And right now, he’s all I’ve got.

“There’s Tate, that’s something,” Gates continues, checking
his notes. The table is piled with them, looseleaf and stuffed into cheap cardboard binders.

I frown. “I thought they dropped the investigation into him.”

“They did.” Gates nods. “But even with his plea, we can cast some doubt, stir it up. And this Juan guy, lurking around. This is good stuff.”

My expression must be less than confident, because he pauses, exhaling. “I know I’m behind,” he adds, apologetic. “And I’m not from some big fancy firm, like the other guy. But I’m getting up to speed on everything. I’ll do my best, I promise.”

“It’s not you.” I feel bad for letting my doubt show. “I’m just tired, of all of this. I thought . . . They told me everything would be okay, that they had a plan, and then . . .” I trail off, feeling tears sting in the back of my throat as I bite back the words I can’t bring myself to say.

Then they all left.

Ellingham quit. He’s still representing Tate and the Dempseys, of course. He didn’t even do it himself: He had his assistant call my dad to explain that it would be a conflict of interest, keeping me as a client. I guess we should have seen it coming, but it still hurt, yet another person walking away. Lamar and the gang are gone, Tate’s gone too, and now my dad—back in Boston to try to raise the money for this new
legal team, and to pay for all these flights and hotel fees that mount up every time he comes to see me.

“It’s okay.” Gates sits beside me, a puts a hand, gentle on my shoulder. It’s the first kind human contact I’ve had in weeks now, and I have to shrug it off—not because I don’t want it, but because I need it too much.

“Did Dad say when he’s coming back?” I ask, swallowing back my emotion. For weeks now, I’ve had nothing but distant phone calls, with Dad’s voice so harried and guilty down the line. It only makes me feel worse, to think what this is putting him through.

“He’s trying.” Gates looks sympathetic. “But there’s a lot to do. He’s found a firm that has a branch in Amsterdam,” he adds in a hopeful voice. “We’re talking all the time about how best to proceed, how this is all going to play out. It’s a whole different legal system here.”

I nod.

“I’m asking around at the police department.” The other guy in the room speaks up for the first time. He’s younger, in his twenties, I guess, and dressed more casual in jeans and a shirt; dark hair cut conservatively over brown eyes. He’s been taking notes this whole time, and I figure him for Gate’s assistant, or some junior with his law firm. “Word is, Dekker isn’t the most popular guy,” he continues. I have to let out a bitter laugh at that. “So maybe we’ll find a source to give us the inside
track on his investigation, find out why he got so fixated on you—and what he might have overlooked in the meantime.”

“Good.” Gates nods, making notes. “Any word from the embassy? Some official support could really help us out right now.”

The guy shakes his head. “I’m getting shut down at every level. Senator Warren must have got involved, or maybe the Dempseys. I shouldn’t even be here; this is all unofficial.”

I look up, confused. “But aren’t you with him?” I nod to Gates.

They exchange a look. “No, this is Lee Evans, a junior consul from the embassy.” Gates explains. “I introduced him when we met last week, remember?”

I don’t.

“I’m sorry.” I shake my head. “I guess things are kind of a blur. . . .”

“No need to apologize,” the Lee guy smiles at me.

Gates’s phone buzzes. “This is my investigator now; I’ll just be outside.”

He steps out, leaving me alone with Lee. Now that I’m paying attention, I can see he’s cute, preppy, and full of concern. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through in here,” he says softly.

I shrug, still wary.

“Are you sleeping okay?” he checks. “Can I bring you
anything? Because we can get you some medication if you’re still having problems—”

“No, no more pills.” I stop him. “They make me too fuzzy,” I fidget with my handcuffs. Even here, in the interview room inside the prison walls, with a guard outside the door, they won’t take any chances. I look down at my chafed wrists and the nails I’ve bitten bloody. “I don’t . . . I don’t want to sleep anymore.”

He nods. There’s silence, but it’s not like with Ellingham, or any of the police—accusing and cold. This is warmer, understanding.

“You’ll get through this,” he says. “You’re strong.”

“How would you know?” I snap before I catch myself. “I’m sorry, I know you’re here to help, it’s just . . .”

“I’m just another stranger, I get it.” Lee looks rueful. “You must be sick of us by now.”

“No,” I reply a after a moment. “It’s better you’re here than . . . not.”

Gates comes back into the room. “Visiting hours are almost over. We should get going.”

“Okay.” I stand awkwardly, watching them pack all the paperwork away. “Will you be back tomorrow?”

“We have a lot of files to go through. . . .” Gates looks torn, so I keep my voice bright.

“It’s okay. It’s actually a good thing. Dekker can’t question
me without you or a lawyer around. I bet he’s going crazy out there, having to leave me alone.”

“You shouldn’t joke,” Lee warns me quietly. “From what I’ve heard, he’s a dangerous man.”

“You think I don’t know that?” I turn to stare at him. “I’m trying, okay?”

“We know,” Gates soothes me. “You’re doing great. Here.” He reaches into his canvas bag. “Your dad sent this to give to you.”

I take the envelope. Inside, there’s a photo of the two of us from Christmas a couple of years ago. We’re wearing the dorky matching holiday sweaters my mom bought for us, smiling into the camera in front of the tree.

I love you. Everything will be okay—trust me.

•  •  •

I say my good-byes to Gates and Lee, watching through the bars as they head down the hallway and out of sight, to freedom.

Everything will be okay. Trust me.

I don’t know how many times he’s said that to me, not just here in prison but my whole life. When I was scared for the first day of school, or stressed about a big test; when I fell off my bike in sixth grade and split my lip. When my mom got sick. I always believed him. He’s my father, he wouldn’t lie to me; he’s a grown-up, he knows the truth. But now I see his
promises for what they really are: hopeful prayers, a mantra he says as much to reassure himself as me.

He can’t fix this, not even close.

I drift back through the prison to the rec room. Without Dekker haunting my every day with his relentless questions, there’s nothing to fill the time except my own black thoughts. The other women still look at me suspiciously and turn away before they talk, but even if one of them did take pity and try to make conversation, I don’t know what I would say. They spend their days watching TV or repeating foreign-language tapes, reading from old school textbooks, mouthing along with the words.

“We return now to our main story of the night, the brutal murder of Elise Warren.”

I freeze.

They tell me not to watch any of the coverage, but I can’t help taking two steps toward the small TV set up in the corner of the room.

“An innocent spring break, ripped apart by an unspeakable crime. A jealous friend, with a history of violence and wild partying.” The anchor is blond and middle-aged, but hiding it under a layer of tanned makeup and a helmet of spray-stiff hair. It’s Clara Rose, the biggest name in salacious true crime TV. I used to channel-hop past her show—endless exposés of dead fiancées, kidnapped children, and murderous cheating
husbands. Now it’s my own photo up on screen, the mug shot from the police station, the night Dekker formally arrested me.

“As Elise Warren’s family and friends still mourn her brutal stabbing, we go behind the scenes to reveal the truth about her accuser murderer, Anna Chevalier. What could have driven this straight-A schoolgirl to the edge?” Clara leans into the camera across her news desk, wide-eyed with fake dismay. “Stay tuned after the break, when we bring you psychologist reports and exclusive interviews with the friends who knew her best.”

I feel the eyes of the other women watching me. I know I should walk away, but I can’t. My feet stayed glued to their spot, my eyes fixed on the small screen.

I stay.

CLARA:
Welcome back. Thanks for tuning in, I’m Clara Rose. Tonight, we go inside the crime that has rocked the island paradise of Aruba, the brutal murder of seventeen-year-old Elise Warren, daughter of former Massachussetts state senator Charles Warren, who recently stepped down from his post—and likely gubernatorial run—to spend time with his family during this horrible tragedy.

WARREN SPOKESPERSON:
The Warren family appreciates all the support, and they ask for privacy as they deal with this matter.

CLARA:
Tonight, we reveal the police investigation into Elise’s accused murderer, her former friend Anna Chevalier. Just who is the girl charged with such an unspeakable crime? We’ll talk to psychologists and
friends, and discover what could have driven her to the brink. But first we go live to our correspondent in Aruba for on-the-ground updates on the investigation.

MARLEE:
Yes, Clara, Hi.

CLARA:
What can you tell us about the situation there, Marlee? We’re hearing here about new developments, and possible new evidence in the case.

MARLEE:
That’s right, Clara. Today, inside leaks from the police department have confirmed what we’ve been hearing in other reports: that there were blood stains in the hallway of the apartment that apparently went unnoticed by Anna and her boyfriend, Tate, for hours on the day of the murder.

CLARA:
We’re seeing the crime-scene photos now. . . . Yes, on-screen, you can see the bedroom where Elise breathed her final breaths. I have to apologize for the disturbing images, folks, that’s an awful lot of blood, but we can see here just how violent the attack was.

MARLEE:
Violent, and frenzied—“frenzied” is what I’m hearing from police sources. Elise clearly struggled,
fighting her attacker, but was stabbed a total of thirteen times, the autopsy report confirms.

CLARA:
Thirteen times! And this blood, yes, we can see on-screen now, photos from the hallway of the beach house where Elise and her friends were staying. There are bloodstains on the tile, visible in several places in the hallway, leading away from the victim’s bedroom toward the front door.

MARLEE:
That’s right, Clara. And it’s these bloodstains that police here closed in on as prime evidence in the murder charges against Anna Chevalier. In her interrogations, Anna has supposedly denied seeing the blood, or even that it was there at all.

CLARA:
Well, I don’t know how anyone can miss those marks; as you can see, the smears are on the tile and up the wall by the door. So it will be the defense’s argument that the blood was tracked out later?

MARLEE:
Yes, I’m guessing that will be a major defense. These crime-scene photos weren’t taken until several hours after the body was discovered,
and by that time, of course, you would have had paramedics and police, a whole group of people going in and out of the room. . . .

CLARA:
But the detectives there . . . I know that investigation is being led by a Klaus Dekker—

MARLEE:
Dekker, that’s right. He’ll be arguing—and this is something I’ve heard from several sources within the police department—their case is that the blood was there in the hallway all along, that saying she didn’t see it is suspicious, a sign of guilt. And with the fingerprints—